


Tell Me Why

by Anglophile_Rin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Little Reichenbach, Contest, M/M, Red Pants, fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic, reapersun, smart-arse!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:27:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anglophile_Rin/pseuds/Anglophile_Rin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic's Red Pants contest in conjunction with Reapersun. John wears red pants, and Sherlock absolutely needs to know why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me Why

Every once in a while, Sherlock Holmes actually managed to be surprised. More and more lately, these surprises came at the hands of one John H. Watson, flatmate, ex-army doctor, blogger and, for lack of a better term, boyfriend.

 Sherlock was surprised when John handed over his phone without even getting Sherlock’s name first. He was even more surprised when John thought he was fantastic for doing the things everyone else had planned elaborate murders for over the years. He was by far the most pleasantly surprised when John performed the holy trifecta of turning down Mycroft, _not_ thinking Sherlock was the murderer (even when he had the case) and shooting a man through two windows with a handgun in order to save Sherlock’s life (a moot point, given Sherlock had _obviously_ selected the correct pill, but lovely all the same).

As they spent more time together, Sherlock was more surprised by the fact that he was still surprised than anything else. He should really have had his flatmate completely sussed out by now; he could deduce his computer password with an average of two tries or less, knew how he took his tea (not that he ever made it – _dull_ ), knew exactly what he wanted to eat for tea any given day of the week, and how often Sherlock could skip these meals without suffering one of the man’s long-winded doctor speeches. And yet, every once in a while, John would burst into laughter when Sherlock was sure what he’d said would get him punched, he’d kissed Sherlock in the middle of breakfast one despairingly average Wednesday morning while Sherlock was still (infuriatingly, _stupidly_ ) under the impression that John was resolutely and immovably straight, and then, of course, there were the pants.

Sherlock would never have guessed that under the oatmeal jumpers and sensibly-cut blue jeans that _hi_ s John would be wearing bright red pants. In fact, he’d not have believed anyone who would have tried to tell him so – he’d barely believed it when he saw it himself.

“You’re wearing the wrong pants.” Sherlock had stated, quite bluntly, as John defrocked in front of him for the first time.

“I’m sorry, darling, if I’d planned ahead for our first time I’d have washed that little lacy number. What are you on about, wrong pants?” John had laughed while displaying an admirable talent for multitasking – undoing Sherlock’s belt with one hand and his shirt buttons with the other (the detective was really wearing far too many clothes for the plans John had for him), all while simultaneously mocking him. Sherlock had no doubt John would be one of the fraction of a percent of people who would be completely successful trying to text while driving – a supertasker, they were called. The word brought to mind the flash of an image of John wearing a cape and blue tights. Which, of course, brought him back to the pants.

“They’re red. Nothing about you would have led me to the conclusion that you would favour red pants.”

“I’m sorry, have you studied pant preference along with everything else? How do you even do that? Force strangers to strip in the street?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. And stop changing the subject. Why are they red?”

“Army thing. Red for Red Cross – doctor, remember? They wanted to know who could bandage up the wounded when they were sleeping in their skivvies so they didn’t rouse the wrong bloke.”

Sherlock frowned, not believing him in the slightest, but was suitably distracted by John’s warm hand finding its way into _his_ pants (suitably black and of the boxer-brief variety) and, holy shit had they really been wasting all of this time talking and eating and living and going out into that blasted dull world when they could have been doing _this_?

 

Later that night, as Sherlock discovered he was actually quite fond of the common practice of post-coital cuddling, he decided that the most likely scenario had John buying a six-pack of briefs from Tescos and ending up with an errant red pair that he was wearing due to needing to do the washing soon (Sherlock had no idea if John did, in fact, need to do the washing soon. He tended not to pay attention to domesticities along those lines – all he knew was that every week or so clean pants, socks, and pyjamas showed up in piles at the foot of his bed. Come to think of it, he actually had no idea whether that was John’s doing or Mrs. Hudson’s…).

 

This theory, while practical, logical, and at least moderately well-thought out, was debunked entirely a few days later when Sherlock slipped under the covers with John. It was somewhere in the vicinity of three am; he’d been in the sitting room, pondering over their latest case when the answer had suddenly appeared to him. He’d texted Lestrade – hoping fervently to have woken him up- and decided to see if post-coital cuddling was just as enjoyable without any coital to speak of. However, as he lifted the comforter, he was greeted by the sight of John Watson, fast asleep and stretched out on his belly, completely naked but for a pair of scarlet red boxers.

Now this was getting ridiculous. It was one thing to throw a wrench into the works by wearing red pants at all, but now he was switching between y-fronts and boxers? Sherlock poked John repeatedly in the side until the blond man grunted, swatting towards the offending finger with a muttered “fuck off” into his pillow.

“John. Explain yourself immediately.”

"I was sleeping. Normal people do it at night time. It’s dark outside, that’s how we know it’s time to do it.”

"That’s not what I meant.”

“I wasn’t explaining, you git, I was laying the groundwork for when I punch you in the face. What are you expecting me to explain, precisely?” John asked a little more clearly, turning his face from the pillow to face his boyfriend.

“Not only are your pants red, they’re a completely different style than the other night. That makes no sense – men have preferences.”

“I prefer variety.”

“You do not! You drink the same bloody tea every day, seven _time_ s a day!”

“Alright, well my bollocks prefer variety. And just try telling me they drink tea.”

“They’re all red.”

“I’m surprised at you, Sherlock Holmes. ‘They’re all’? You’ve seen two. Awfully small sample size to be making that conclusion.”

Sherlock made a sound that could only be described as pure frustration.

“They _are_ all red, mind, but it wasn’t very scientific of you.”

That time the sound could really only be described as a mixture of murderous and suicidal. John wondered briefly where he’d last stowed away his pistol.

“You have to tell me why. It makes no sense.”

John smiled sleepily into the pillow. “I’m rubbish at washing. Red shirts in with white pants and socks. Ruining everything constantly.”

“That’s simply ludicrous; that would turn your white articles pink, not red.”

“I’ve an awful lot of red clothing, and I do it a lot. Really, it’s just a seriously dark pink you’re seeing.”

“John…” Sherlock whined. John huffed out a laugh.

“Try not to sound like a five-year-old, love; makes me feel a bit like a paedophile. C’mere.” Wrapping an arm around Sherlock, John pulled him close and refused to answer again, blatantly ignoring Sherlock’s numerous pokes and prods and even shouts of frustration, until the taller made finally gave it up and went to sleep in a sulk.

 

***

 

“Tell me why.”

“I wash them in the blood of my victims. Oh, and coincidentally, I’m a serial murderer.”

 

***

 

“Tell me why.”

“They’re like a mood ring – they change colour depending on my state of arousal.”

 

***

 

“Tell me.”

“Lipstick stains. They didn’t call me ‘Three Continents Watson’ for nothing, you know.”

 

***

 

“John. Tell me. Now.”

“Don’t we have other things to be worrying about at the moment, love? Like, I don’t know, Moriarty framing you for every crime under the sun?”

“Please.”

“I write all my sordid thoughts about you on them in red pen.”

 

***

 

Sherlock still didn’t understand them. Unlike the pleasantness he felt at being surprised by John Watson, he hated the frustration of not understanding him. He understood air, he understood sleep, he understood food and daylight and vitamins and the requisite amount of exercise needed by the average adult male. Everything else that was crucial to his survival, Sherlock understood. But he needed John Watson to stay alive, and as it turned out, he didn’t understand him at all. It was maddening.

That being said, he had a favourite pair. They were a soft, microfiber boxer-brief, like something the army would issue for a ruck march except, of course, in red. He liked when John wore them to bed and he could press up against them (Sherlock preferred to sleep naked, while John liked to at least have his pants on – said he was too cold without, though Sherlock maintained that this was more of a mind over matter issue than the actual retention of body heat). For some reason, they made him feel safer – like he was closer to John, like they were sharing a single article of clothing – the closest Sherlock would ever get to being able to sharing John’s skin.

 

So, naturally, Sherlock stole them.

 

The hope was that John would never notice. He did have other things on his mind, after all. (That was a lie. The hope was that John would realize they were gone, would know Sherlock took them, and would understand that he was alive and that he loved him and that he would come back as soon as he could. That the ‘other things on his mind’ would be the shopping and work and not what he thought was his dead boyfriend.)

Sherlock missed him. It hurt, he missed him so much. He’d never believed the colloquialism before – that a person could miss another so much that it caused actual, _physical_ pain. He couldn’t understand how someone could care so much that their own brain mixed up the signals between emotions and sensations. But not having John – that _hurt_. It hurt in his chest and behind his eyes; it hurt in his knees and his left pinky finger. He closed his eyes and he could smell John, and that hurt his nose and his throat and his lungs – the phantom scent particles burning pathways through Sherlock’s nasal passages and into his blood stream, hitting every last extremity.

 

When Sherlock found a place to sleep, when the hunting and the killing and the blasted, messy work for the day was done (work had become a four letter word without John to assist and blog about it and giggle at the crime scenes), Sherlock would shed his clothing, pretending he could shed the very skin of the man and murderer he’d become. He would take the pants from his messenger bag – one of the only items he brought with him everywhere he went, one of the only material possessions he wouldn’t leave behind in a heartbeat – close his eyes for a moment, then slip them on (it really did feel warmer, maybe it wasn’t all in John’s head after all)

Lying on the bed, he’d stare at the ceiling, and try and imagine what John would say the next time Sherlock demanded “Tell me why, I need to know why.”

That way he could avoid thinking of what he’d say when John most likely asked the exact same question.

 

***

 

“John.”

“…”

“John, please. Won’t you speak to me?”

“…”

“…Tell me.”

“Because I used them to mop your blood up off of the pavement, you absolute arsehole.”

 

***

 

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Tell me why.”

“Because I’m angry. Because red means stop. Because I see red when I look at you, and so you should, too. Because I hate you sometimes and it burns red-hot like a poker in my stomach.”

 

***

 

 

“Tell me why. I need to know why.”

“I eat far too many tomatoes.”

Sherlock laughed out loud, which surprised even him.

 

***

 

“Tell me.”

“I’m going out.”

Sherlock didn’t laugh that time.

 

***

 

 

“You know why?” John asked softly to the dark room and quiet night, thinking Sherlock was probably asleep.

“No. Tell me.” The man answered automatically.

“So you’d keep asking.” John smiled, laughing his words. “I only had the one – it was almost laundry day. And then you asked, and taking you off guard was so much fun, I went out and bought two dozen.”

Sherlock didn’t know whether the get mad or laugh.

But John rolled over, nuzzling his face into Sherlock's neck, and so Sherlock decided that the answer had to be laugh – always laugh.


End file.
